Debris
by hpfanfreak06
Summary: The smell of smoke is still present in her hair a week later.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: It's been a while since I have written anything. But I watch the season four finale of Veronica Mars last night and was so furious and so confused, I felt like I needed to write something. There are obvious spoilers for the most recent season, so you are warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars or any of the characters, they belong to Rob Thomas who I really hope has a plan and fixes this mess.

The smell of smoke is still present in her hair a week later. She's used up all of his shampoo to mask it. To smell like some small part of him. Before the universe said, "fuck you" and left debris behind. Sometimes she wakes at 3AM reaching out. Life breaks into pieces all over again.

Leaving Neptune a year later was a reflex. It was Logan who pushed her away and Logan who pulled her in. Maybe this was permanent. Nothing to crawl into her ear, tempting her. No engraved stone or letters on marble. When it happened, they said there was nothing left. That part of her that needs a solution, an answer, almost stayed to find it. Almost let some far-fetched hope keep her there. But this was a new person. Someone who runs away from the answers. Not because she doesn't want them. It's the looming threat of disappointment that keeps her moving. Keith Mars gives her that look parents save for when their child is broken. It almost makes her cave. Almost. She still packs up her car and leaves his traces behind. Except for the ring on her finger and that message he left. During her drive, out of Neptune she listened to it until her throat stopped constricting. Jane seemed to believe it might bring her some sort of comfort. There is no comfort in heartbreak this deep. She's scarred and the only thing that can heal is dust. Blowing down an alley in Neptune, California.

The drive causes her to think too much, so she welcomes her arrival to San Francisco. A case brought her here (another cheating husband), but she's staying. Found an apartment with zero ocean views and no occupants named Pony. She finds the keys in a lock box in the lobby and enters to find the darkness she's been craving. The windows are bathed in blackout curtains and nothing about the paint screams sunny California. Few furniture fills the space, and the floors are scuffed. It's not home, but she'll never have a home again.

Darkness lets her rest, at least for a while, before some neighbor below or above her, she can't tell, turns up the bass and the floor vibrates. Moving herself out of bed, with just a bit of regret, she decides despite her overwhelming desire to remain the dark, that food is pretty great too. She finds a sandwich place down the street and sits outside at one of those metal tables, going over her notes for the case. It's pretty straight forward. Forty something wife, married to a forty something husband (who like all of them is not struggling) suspects the husband is having some side time with the young twenty something intern. The husband goes on frequent business trips to San Francisco and always seems to forget to call his wife. He always stays at the same hotel so finding him should be a breeze. She'll take the photos, send them to the wife and pay her rent for the next six months. Some might consider this new life a but lonely. But it's what she's got.

Sure enough at exactly 2pm the husband leaves the building where he's just met with another cheating husband, a brunette about twenty-three with her fingers wrapped around his arm, a fake giggle into his ear. Another forty-five minutes later she's got pictures of them going into a room and coming out barely dressed. She calls the wife and send the photos her way, letting her know she can decide what to do with them. And her reason for coming is complete. She falls asleep that night listening to that message until her eyes drift off.

It's 3:22AM when she wakes up. Listening to the sound of his voice through the pain she wants so desperately to let go of. The eleventh time she listens to it she forgets to hit repeat. There is a brief silence, before his voice comes back on. "Here is your inspirational quote of the day, Not everything is what it seems. Go back and take a look again. You might be surprised at what you will find.-Logan Echolls."

Maybe she couldn't run away from the answers.


	2. Chapter 2

Authors Note: This took longer than I intended! My job and school are a little hectic right now. So updates could be a little slow, but I am intent on finishing this. Thank you for all the reviews. It's nice to know others are just as furious and confused as I am. This chapter is more of a filler, but the story will start moving. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars or the characters, they belong to Rob Thomas, who clearly cares nothing about them.

The battery in her phone gives out an hour later. Her body feels heavy, from lack of sleep or what she's just heard, she doesn't know. Circumstances tell her to ignore it, replace it with something else, anything. A promise was made when she drove away from Neptune. And she intends to follow through.

In the days after hearing it, she almost deletes it from her phone. The voice over that follows her around pleas with her to do it. Move forward. Stop holding on. Letting go didn't happen a year later and she doesn't expect it to occur. How do you let go of something you still crave? She closes her phone and grabs her bag. Outside awaits.

San Francisco seems like most California cities. Tourists escaping their lives in more boring places, and the temperatures they like to complain about. The population that resides here doesn't have the grit she's used to. Grime from the build-up of decades of crime. She wants to be relieved that it's different. Loneliness doesn't give relief. Still, she's never going back.

It's two weeks later when she meets her bass blasting neighbor. And like in those sitcoms she used to watch with her dad, they find each other in the laundry room. Last load was in the dryer, the whirring the first thing that has calmed her for weeks, when said neighbor walks in. She's expecting a girl with the same hard edge she's had since she was fifteen, a piercing or two in places that distract. The girl appears fresh out of college, one where there are no serial rapists and the freshman dorm has community slumber parties. Jealously seems like the obvious choice. She was supposed to be this girl, a long time ago.

"You're new here right? I'm Casey. I think I live below you."

"I'm guessing you're the reason my whole apartment vibrates like a dental drill at 7am."

"Sorry about that, Trevor's -never going to leave the couch best friend- says it helps him focus on his curls. Whatever that means."

"Well, tell Trevor's best friend, if he wakes me up at an ungodly hour again, I'll be forced to take measures."

The dryer beeps.

She's lived her lonely existence for a month now. Her father's voice unsure beneath their usual banter. Standing in his office (their office) the message would no longer be her secret, over the phone helps her bite her tongue. Cases have been sent her way, occupying her days (nights with burgers on the dashboard and a cluster of neon signs) with stories she might laugh about someday. The friends she had are there but drifting away is easy when communication is in the form of a single letter.

When she's not taking photos outside of every hotel in San Francisco, the coffee shop down the street is quiet and people watching distracts her from herself. But then she starts to think too much about what she was before and who hell she's supposed to be now, and the distraction sends her back to the comforting darkness of her apartment.

As she's counting the cracks in the ceiling late at night the overwhelming need to hear his voice (she doesn't want to forget it) wins. The message plays like before, with the same Logan outro. Before she can press repeat (just to hear it one more time), his voice picks up again.

"Here is your inspirational quote of the day: Dust does rise doesn't it? And so, can I.-Dionne Warwick"

She has to go back.

Mars Investigations didn't hold back on PI tropes. Low lighting, a quirky receptionist, and windows with fogged glass. This cliché never failed to bring her a sense of serenity. Today, she was nervous. Waiting for her father to talk his way out of another long conversation with a CEO claiming his wife is the one checking into less than favorable motels. Keith Mars lumbers out giving her the same expression she's seen for a year. He wants so desperately to save her.

"I need you to listen to something."

The message plays, the palms of her hands running down her thighs, eyes scanning the newspaper on her father's desk. He'll think she finally let herself go.

"Well what do you think they mean?"

"You think I've lost it. Right? Because I'm really starting to question it."

"No honey, I don't think you're crazy. If you were, you would have kept this to yourself. Now, answer my question. What do these messages mean?"

"You're going to send me away."

"No, I promise. Hit me."

He's leaning back against his desk, arms crossed. There's that serenity.

"Dad, I think Logan might be alive."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I apologize this update took so long. Work and school are exhausting. But I have been working on this when I have spare moments. I'm not sure how happy I am with the writing quality, but this does move the story along. I'm hoping to get chapter four written tomorrow, but I have a giant project due, so I cannot make any promises. But cross your fingers! Also working on making these chapters much longer. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars or any of the characters, Rob Thomas does. And currently he's not doing so great with them. Here's to a potential season five where everything is fixed.

* * *

The quiet rises like bleach in a windowless bathroom. It's suffocating, and her eyes burn from fighting back tears.

"You really don't believe me?"

"I know you want to find the answers, but honey, I'm telling you, if you become invested in this, you will never heal."

It's a reasonable request. Forget about it, move forward and shove it into that box of things others tell you to erase.

"Dad, I know what I heard. Why would Logan leave these messages? You think he did this for kicks?! Those mean something. And they're meant for me to figure out."

It's better to leave, than be at the end of his sympathetic gaze.

She stays in a hotel that night. And then the next three days.

It's on the second day, slumped on a white sheeted bed, the room service delivery her only human interaction, when she settles on returning.

The streets are the same, rich buildings with shiny new windows lining the shore. What brought any charm was replaced with dollar signs and pretty faces. But, it's still there. Empty, but existing. Painted a blue chosen from the unwanted paint at the hardware store down the street. A summer spent with blue freckles on her skin.

She parks across the street, stalling puts air in her lungs. The alley looks longer than she remembered. Staring, willing herself to keep on, she moves closer to the place where everything was taken. The street was clean, and she wasn't counting on finding anything. But then again, she's a better detective than most.

Looking towards the window she couldn't get to fast enough, she tries to visualize the moment it happened. What direction her car was facing, where the backpack was, where…he was. Explosions are never one directional, but they only go so far. Afterwards she refused to go back. Sent Wallace and her father to get her things. No use exposing herself to more misery. Bouncing back. Yeah right.

Sand had placed itself along the edge of the fence, even a street cleaner couldn't fight it. Even a day after it happened, the area would have looked much different. Standing where the car must have been, she walks straight to the fence. Moving her fingers through the warm sand she finds gum wrappers, bottle caps, and old receipts. Until her had clasps around a small object. A ring. It's scratched from months in the sand, but still perfectly round. Studying it, she can barely make out the inscription inside.

A sob tries to fight its way out of her throat.

"Epic"

It's in her car when she falls into the steering wheel.

* * *

They told her there was nothing left.

Either they missed it, or it was placed there.

Metal detector fisherman are always scouring Neptune's beaches, looking for anything to make a buck. Someone left this for her.

Lying in the freshly made hotel bed (she forgot the "Do not disturb" sign), she listens to the message. Rolling the ring between her fingers.

She doesn't want to be one of those girls (women?) who wears her dead husbands ring around her neck, so she keeps it safely in the inside pocket of her bag.

The same words she's heard behind blackout curtains play in the same sequence. Message. Pause. Inspirational quote. Pause. Inspirational quote. Until another click and his voice comes back.

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while. -The Princess Bride."

This one gives her hope. And if she has learned anything in the last year, hope is a dangerous thing.

* * *

Keith Mars knows grief. Delusion from clients that have come in with the same pleas. Sure that the person they love must be alive, because accepting they're gone is worse than losing their sanity.

His daughter isn't crazy. She's temporarily unrepairable.

Vulnerable to influences that have the potential to leave you broken. San Francisco was supposed to cleanse her. Bring her back to life.

Instead she found things she wasn't supposed to find. Not yet.

He had promised to keep her safe.

Fine job he was doing.

_I'm sorry Maverick. She found them._

**_….._**

**What? I thought we were in the clear.**

…..

_We were. Until…_

…..

**What happened?**

….

_Jane._


	4. Chapter 4

"Authors Note: So, it's been a while. I apologize for not updating sooner, Grad school is not for the feint of heart. But I've had a bit of a break before my last semester and decided to come back to this. Not going to lie, I had to remember what my plans were for this story. I think I've figured it. Mostly. I'm hoping to write some more this week and hopefully update weekly. But classes start again tomorrow, so I cannot promise anything. And if you were wondering, yes, I'm still very angry about the direction the show took. But, there's always fanfiction .

Disclaimer: I do not own Veronica Mars, it belongs to Rob Thomas.

* * *

She likes the darkness. Even when your eyes adjust, objects are like shadows. Their lines curved in the wrong places, towering like giants. Before Lily by the pool and late nights in cars, what she couldn't see sent her under butterfly covered comforters, eyes squeezed so tight she saw stars. Now, surrounded by a hard shell and grit under her nails, she welcomes it.

The curtains of her hotel room hide her from the sun driven life of California. Guided by the light from her laptop and reruns of television shows with laugh tracks, the last four days have brought her no answers. No trace of Logan exists. Gas station videos void of baseball cap disguises and any credit cards he had were cut off after joining the Navy. If he is alive, he doesn't want to be found. She remembers Logan, convinced his mother was alive, and how dangerous hope can be. Should grief come from the shadows once again, she wants to be prepared.

Her only shred of evidence are the messages. Quotes of Logan's own sarcastic nature, and others he had to have chosen for a reason. Logan never did anything for kicks.

The first, his own words, triggering her instincts. Second, a quote from some artist in his playlist, which unknowingly led her back to where her grief began. And the third, was a bit more sentimental. Their second? Or was it third first date? They had been pulled in opposite directions, before springing backwards into each other so many times it was almost impossible to know where they started. That evening, spent in the more classy of Neptune's theaters, was when the world that had stabbed her in the back for so long finally put the knife down.

The recording pauses, before his voice says, "Our story is epic. Lives ruined, blood shed, epic."

Neptune Grand, Logan with a bottle of liquor, a prom formed out of rebellion. The summary of their version of love permanently tatooed under their skin.

These are clues.

Logan never did anything for kicks after all.

* * *

Neptune, California had taken its dark colors with sunshine faces and pretended that the one of them didn't exist. The city was a popular spring break destination, and those who over saw it, wanted it to stay that way. Buildings lined the better parts of the city, with changing lights and perfect smiles to draw you in. Vegas without the strippers. All the glamour but none of the dirt. Neptune's Galaxy Theater was the first, built on taxes. During the first few months of opening, the theater held weekly Wednesday showings of classic films. Logan had insisted on the still fresh seats and daily cleaned popcorn machine, dragging her along with him. They sat in the back, tossing popcorn at teenage couples, teetering between feeling so adult and seventeen again. She'd seen the movie, repeated on cable television every Saturday. It was sitting next tragic Hollywood story Logan, images on the screen reversed in his eyes, that made it different. But the real tragedy of it all, was she let her predetermined existence fade, and saw something brighter.

There's no parking at the Neptune Galaxy, cars on the streets would damage the luxury image. They were hidden in concrete parking garages, blocked by the lights and dollar signs. The theater looks as it did all those years ago, save for the hubs outside to charge your phone. She buys a ticket to a movie about a singing penguin, because asking questions doesn't come naturally any more. There are four screens, all with red velvet chairs and trays that come out from the back of the seats like on an airplane. Her photographic memory leads her to theater two. The seventeen year old usher is flirting with a red head, so she slips in unnoticed. No one is sitting in the back row, and the lights have gone down, the green preview screen signaling eyes forward and hands in popcorn tubs.

Crawling on her knees, feeling under every seat, for what, she doesn't know. Passing by seat seven, her fingers disturb something taped to the bottom of the arm rest. Pulling it free, it appears to be a ticket stub.

From that night.

There's no clearness among the laughing and whispers of the theater. When she returns to her car, instinct reminds her to glance in her back seat. Safe.

The stub is dated 7/8/2015. Theater 2, seats 7 and 8. It must be the numbers. Maybe a phone number? No, not enough digits.

"Come on Veronica think!"

Playing the voicemails again. Epic.

That's it.


End file.
